Hawermann kept very much alone, and when visitors came to see Mrs.
Behrens, he either remained in his room or went out into the garden.
There were a great many visitors, for the one half of Rahnstaedt thought
they could not better show their contempt for the other half, which had
put Mrs. Behrens' house under the bann, than by going there as often as
possible. So it came to pass that rector Baldrian and Kurz the
shopkeeper came to see Mrs. Behrens nearly every day, for their
women-kind had preached Hawermann's innocence to them so vehemently at
home, that they found it impossible to retain their doubts any longer.
Young Joseph, his wife and Mina, and parson Godfrey and Lina often came
in from the country and dined with them. Braesig made Mrs. Behrens'
house his headquarters, and was always coming in and out like the dove
to the ark bringing any news from Rexow, Puempelhagen and Guerlitz he
could pick up for his old friend. He told him that the ground was dry
and fit for ploughing; and sometimes when he spoke of what
Pomuchelskopp or Alick were about, he forgot his character of dove, and
dropping the olive branch, would show himself to be neither more nor
less than a raven. He would not be denied when he came, but told
Hawermann to his face that he had come to cheer him up, and if he did
not succeed on that occasion, he was not at all put out, and returned
to the charge next day as if nothing had happened, telling his friend
all about the weather and the crops.
In the spring of 1846 there was a great deal to be said about both the
weather and the crops. The winter had been warm and wet, so the spring
was early, and everything was green before anyone looked for it. The
grass and autumn sown corn were green in February, even the clover was
sprouting, the fields were as dry as one could wish, and the weather
was like harvest time. "Charles," said Braesig, "you'll see that harm
will come of it, the spring is too fine, and when a bird sings too
early in the morning, a cat eats him before night; you'll see, we'll
all be groaning by autumn. The devil take every early spring!"--On
Palm-sunday he brought a rape-flower in full bloom and laying it on the
table before Hawermann, he said: "Look there! Look there! That's from
your rape-field at Puempelhagen. You'll see, Charles, the Louis d'ors
will be in flower in a week's time; but it's all vinegar, it's covered
with beetles."--"Oh, Zacariah, we've often had that before and yet
we've had good rape all the same."--"Yes, Charles, _black_ beetles, not
_grey_ ones--I've brought the proof of your convarsion with me--," he
felt in his pocket and pulled out a small paper-parcel, but when he
opened it, it was empty. "What did I tell you, Charles! These grey
beetles are cunning dogs and are not to be counted on for anything even
to the harm they do. You'll see, Charles, that this year'll be neither
more nor less than a cake made of nest eggs, everything's going
contrary to nature. Why? The rye is seldom tall enough before May-day
to hide a crow, this year a good sized turkey-cock could easily hide
itself in it. No, Charles, the world has gone quite round. The parsons
have been preaching about it from the pulpit, they say that the moon's
going slap in among the stars, and then the sun 'ill be too near the
earth, and everything 'ill catch fire. They say that 'ill be the
beginning of the Day of Judgment, and that everyone ought to repent of
his sins at once."--"Bless me, Zachariah! That's all nonsense."--"I say
so too, Charles. It's a mistaken kind of repentance that has been shown
too, for the labourers at Klein-Bibow have given up work, have sold all
their possessions to the Jews, and are spending their time drinking and
devouring their goods. Parson Godfrey wanted to preach the same kind of
sermon in his church, but I hid myself behind Lina, and she talked him
out of it. But things are looking ill, Charles."--"I think perhaps we
may have a bad harvest; but Kurz was here yesterday and he told me that
the winter corn was looking beautiful."--"Well, Charles, I thought you
had been a wiser man. Kurz, if you please, Kurz! He understands all
about salt herrings, for he's a good tradesman; but he must get up
earlier in the morning if he wants to express an opinion about corn,
for it needs a farmer, and a good farmer, to understand _that_. You
see, it's just as I say, Charles, everyone puts his finger in our pie,
and these town's people are about as wise as bees. If any man takes to
farming _poor passer le tongs_, because he likes the amusement, _a la
bonhour!_ I have nothing against it, but when he tries to derive
advantage from it--pshaw!--Kurz! He may peep into a sugar barrel or
into another man's hand at cards; but when he tries to peep into a
field of rye, the meaning of what he sees, is hidden from him. But what
I was going to say, Charles, is this; I'm here, bag and baggage, next
week."--"No, Braesig, no, if this is going to be a bad year the young
people will need you, and Godfrey understands too little about farming
to be able to do without your help."--"Yes, Charles, you're right, and
if you think I ought--for I have given myself entirely to you--I will
stay with him. But now good-bye! I don't know why, but I feel rather
stomach-achy, I must go and ask Mrs. Behrens if she can give me a
little kuemmel." With that he left the room, but next moment he put his
head in at the door again, and said: "I had almost forgotten to tell
you about Puempelhagen. There's such an infernally queer kind of farming
going on there just now that you might almost warm your hands and feet
at it. I met Triddelfitz yesterday near the shed, and although he's an
infamous grey-hound, he was nearly crying about it: 'Mr. Braesig,' he
said, 'I lie awake at night bothering over the farming, and tire myself
out thinking, till I can't fall asleep at all. When I've got it all
beautifully arranged in my head, and have told the people in the
morning what they are to do, the squire comes out with his arm in a
sling and undoes all my arrangements. He sends the labourers off to the
fields in twos and threes, this way and that, so that they are all
running about like chickens with their heads cut off, and I have to
chase them and gather them all together again. Then when they're all
collected and working in the afternoon, he comes out, and scatters them
once more.' It must be a great satisfication to you to hear this,
Charles, for it shows that they can't get on without you." After that
he went away, but soon put his head in again to say: "What I wanted to
say, Charles, was this--half of the horses at Puempelhagen are done up;
a few days ago I saw them standing while the carts were being filled
with marl, the poor things were hanging their heads and ears down
devotion'ly as the labourers do in church, and it isn't over work that
makes them do it, but want of food. The squire hasn't too much fodder
in his barns, for he sold three loads of oats, and two of peas, to the
Jews this spring, and his granary floor is now as empty as if the bull
had licked it. He has to buy oats, but the poor farm horses get none,
for the oats are all given to the thoroughbred mares who do nothing for
their living, and so steal the days when they should be at work from
God. There is great injustice in the world! Now good-bye, Charles." He
went away really this time.
It was a sad picture that Braesig had drawn of the condition of affairs
at Puempelhagen, but matters were even worse there than he suspected. He
had said nothing of the influence want of money was having on Alick's
character, and that was the worst part of the whole business. Pressure
of that kind does not only make people irritable, it also makes them
hard to their dependents, and poor Alick, like other men in his
position fell into the mistaken idea that the reason he was so hard up
was because his labourers were too well treated. It was Pomuchelskopp
who first taught him that this might be the case. So he took a little
here and a little there from his people, and then when his natural
good-nature got the better of him he gave them back a little here and a
little there, in both cases without method and just as the fancy seized
him. At first the labourers had all laughed at the new mode of farming
their young master had introduced, but very soon their laughter was
changed to murmuring, and then their murmurs became complaints. Under
Hawermann's rule the labourers had always received their corn and money
punctually, so they did not like waiting till there was some to give
them. When they complained to their master, they only got sharp words
in answer to their grumblings, and that they thought even worse.
Discontent was spreading.
Alick comforted himself with looking forward to the new harvest, and
the money he would get for it; but unfortunately Braesig's predictions
came true. The crops looked thin as they stood in the fields, and when
they were cut down, and carried in, the barns were only half full.
Experienced old farmers said to the young beginners: "Take care! Save
what you can, for hard times are coming. That corn won't be worth
much." It was good advice, but what was the use of it to Alick? He must
have money, so he had the corn thrashed out at once for seed and for
sale. It brought a fine price when it was sold, for the corn-Jews saw
from the first what was surely coming, and bought up all the corn they
could on speculation, and so the natural dearth was succeeded by an
artificial dearth. The old labourers at Puempelhagen shook their heads
when they saw the waggons driving out of the yard: "What's to become of
us! What's to become of us! We'll have no corn to make our bread." And
the women stood at their cottage doors wringing their hands: "Look
Daddy, that little heap of potatoes is all I have remaining, and
they're all diseased. What are we to do this winter?"--So dearth had
come into the rich land of Mecklenburg like a thief in the night. No
one had expected it, and no one had made preparations to defend himself
against it. What was to be done?--It fell most heavily on the small
towns, and on the artisans in those towns. The labourers always had
work, and the children could beg from door to door, and then soup
kitchens were organised for them. But the poor artisan had nothing to
do, for no one got anything made; he did not know how to beg, indeed
he was too proud to do so. I once went to see the wife of an honest
hard-working tradesman during that time. The dinner was on the table
and the hungry children were standing round it ready to begin. When I
went in, the woman threw a cloth over the dish, and while she was out
of the room calling her husband I lifted the cloth, and what did I find
under it? Boiled potato skins! That was all they had for dinner.
At such a time God sits in heaven and picks out the good men from
amongst the evil ones, that all may see clearly which is which; He
supports the good, and rejoices to see them bear fruit; but the wicked
fall under the flail and the scourge, that is to say, under the power
of their own evil wishes, unrighteous actions, and unjust thoughts, so
that when they grow up and the time comes for them to bear fruit they
are choked by weeds which are sometimes so fair to the eye that the
world looks at them with admiration, but when the harvest comes, and
the sickle is put to their roots, the crop of grain is found to be very
small, then the Lord of the harvest turns away from the field, for it
is written: "By their fruits ye shall know them."
Many people, during these hard times, gave to the poor with large
hearted charity in spite of the pressure of their own difficulties, and
the sheriff, Mr. von Oe .., the chamberlain, Mr. von E .., farmer H ..,
our old friend Moses, and many other people were of those who bore good
fruit in the sight of God in those hard times. But Pomuchelskopp was
not one of that good company, nor were Slus'uhr nor David, for these
three sat together in Guerlitz manor and laid their plans for completing
Alick's ruin. David and Slus'uhr felt no qualms of conscience in doing
their work, but they had not enough money to go on with it, for they
wanted to use all they had of their own for lending to those who were
in desperate need of it, at the highest possible rate of interest. They
had used up all their own capital and so they now applied to Mr.
Pomuchelskopp for money, promising that he should go shares with them
in their gains. But they found their friend too wide-awake to do
anything of the sort; he feared lest it should become known that he had
done so, and lest he should be blamed. He therefore said that he had no
money, but what he required to keep his cattle and his people alive
during the famine.--"I agree with you about the cattle," answered
Slus'uhr, "but it's great nonsense about the people. Don't deceive
yourself on that point, pray! Your people are going everywhere begging.
As we drove past the parsonage just now I saw all the wives and
children of your labourers collected in the yard, where your old friend
Braesig was standing with two large pails full of porridge which young
Mrs. Baldrian was distributing."--"Let her go on! Let her go on!" said
Pomuchelskopp. "I never interfere with anyone's good works. These
people may be able to afford it, I cannot, and I have no money."--"But
you have the Puempelhagen bills," said David.--"They're of no use just
now. Mr. von Rambow's harvest was worse than anyone else's, and he has
threshed out and sold all the grain he had."--"That's the very reason
you should do something," replied Slus'uhr. "Now's the time to act. You
won't have such a good opportunity again in a hurry, and he can't take
it ill of you, for you are in such desperate need of money that you
have had to sell some of his bills to David and me. You must wait no
longer. Shake the tree, for the plums are ripe."--"What is the sum
total?" asked David.--"H'm!" said Pomuchelskopp, going to his desk and
scratching his ear thoughtfully. "I have bills for sixteen hundred and
fifty pounds."--"Is that all?" asked Slus'uhr, "I wish it had been
more."--"Yes, that's all, except a mortgage for twelve hundred pounds
that I've had for the last year and a half."--"Then you've acted very
foolishly. You have always to give proper notice before you can
foreclose. However, it do'sn't matter so much after all. Give me the
bills for the sixteen hundred and fifty pounds, and I'll see that they
give him trouble enough for the present."--Muchel would not at first
consent, but Henny, who had joined them, was so determined that he had
to give way and hand the bills over to Slus'uhr and David.
The old game was once more played at Puempelhagen. Slus'uhr and David
came and made Alick suffer the torments of purgatory. They would not
hear of the bills being renewed. He must and should pay, although he
had not a penny and could think of no plan for raising the money. The
blow came upon him as suddenly as Nicodemus came by night, and for the
first time the thought flashed into his mind that it might be a plot to
ruin him, that his kind neighbour at Guerlitz perhaps had his finger in
the pie, and had set these two rogues to badger him; but how it could
be so remained hidden from him. What was the use of thinking and
troubling about that. He must have money and from whom could he borrow
it? He knew of no one who could lend it to him. Then in spite of his
misgivings of a few minutes before his thoughts turned to his neighbour
Pomuchelskopp once more. He must help him; who else could do it? He got
on his horse and rode over to Guerlitz.
Muchel received him very kindly and heartily as if to show that he
considered it to be the duty of neighbours to cling to one another, and
uphold one another in these bad times. He groaned over his wretched
harvest, and complained loudly of the difficulties he was in for want
of ready money, so that Alick found it impossible to urge his request
and felt much ashamed of troubling a man, who was himself straightened,
with the tale of his difficulties. But necessity is a hard master, and
so he at last asked Pomuchelskopp why he had parted with his bills to
those two usurers. Whereupon Muchel folded his hands across his stomach
and looking compassionately at the young man, said: "Ah, Mr. von
Rambow, I couldn't help it.--Look" and opening his desk he pointed to a
drawer in which there were perhaps thirty pounds, "look that's all the
money I have, and I must buy provisions for my cattle and labourers,
and I thought you might perhaps have money by you."--Alick then asked
him why he had not come to him himself.--"I couldn't do that," answered
Muchel, "you know the proverb, 'Money binds strangers to each other,
but it separates friends,' and you and I are friends." That was all
very true, Alick replied, but the usurers had pressed him hard and he
did not know where to turn for help. "Did they really?" cried
Pomuchelskopp. "They oughtn't to have done that. I expressly stipulated
that they shouldn't dun you. Of course you will renew the bills--it'll
cost you a trifle, but that can't be helped under the circumstances."
Alick knew that as well as he did, but he would not allow himself to be
talked over this time, and passionately entreated Pomuchelskopp to help
him with his credit if he could lend him no money. "Willingly," said
Muchel, "but how? Who has money just now?" Alick asked whether Moses
would not help. "I don't know him," was the answer, "I've never done
any business with him. Your father found him useful, and you know him
yourself, so I advise you to turn to him."
That was the only comfort Alick could get; Pomuchelskopp slipped
through his fingers like an eel, and when he rode home his thoughts
were as gloomy and disagreeable as the evening itself.
David and Slus'uhr came back. They dunned him in the most shameless
manner, and when he told them that Pomuchelskopp was too hard up to
help him, they refused to listen, and only demanded their money the
more fiercely.
Alick rode from one place to another, knocking at this door and at
that, but all in vain, he could not raise the money. And when at last
he came home worn out and despairing, he read in his wife's quiet eyes
that she knew all, though she kept silence, her lips firmly closed,
reminding him of a beautiful book containing words of comfort which was
now closed to him for ever, for he had lost the key which would have
unlocked it. Since the time she had learnt the great wrong she had done
Hawermann on the day he had been turned off with ignominy, a wrong she
had done him from love to her husband, she had never again spoken to
Alick of his money difficulties. She could not help him, and she would
not tempt him to tell her what was false either about himself or
others. His restless manner and anxious expression showed that he was
even more unhappy than usual, and when she went to bed that night and
saw her sleeping child, her heart softened and she remembered that he
was her baby's father, so bursting into tears, she determined to speak
to him gently on the next morning about his difficulties, and to show
herself ready and willing to bear her share of his burden.
But next morning Alick ran down-stairs whistling and singing, called
Triddelfitz and gave him his orders, and then calling Christian Degel
told him to get the carriage ready and to put up clothes enough to last
him for several days. When he met his wife in the door-way he looked so
bright and happy that the words she had been prepared to speak died
unuttered. "Are you going anywhere?" she asked.--"Yes, I have to go
away on business. I shall probably go to Schwerin also, have you any
message for my sisters?" She told him to give them her love, and soon
afterwards Alick bade her farewell, and getting into the carriage,
drove off towards Schwerin. He had again told his wife but half the
truth, his only business was in Schwerin, at his sisters' house. He had
suddenly remembered during the night that his sisters had money. His
father had left them a small house and garden and rather more than two
thousand pounds. The money was put out at 41/2 per cent interest, and on
this income, small as it was, they managed to live. Their father had
not been able to do more for them, and had trusted that the married
sisters, and especially Alick, would help them now and then. It was
this money Alick had thought of in the middle of the night; it was just
what he wanted; it would tide him over his difficulties, and he could
pay his sisters a reasonable percentage on it as well as strangers. He
determined to give them five per cent instead of the 41/2 they had had
before, and he would himself be free from those rapacious money
lenders, and at small cost to himself considering the greatness of the
benefit to be obtained. It was this thought that had cheered him.
When, on reaching Schwerin, the young squire had explained his
necessities to his sisters, and had told them of his grievous losses
that year, the poor women were filled with pity for him and comforted
him to the best of their ability. When Albertine who was much the
wisest of the three sisters and who had the charge of their money
affairs, began to speak hesitatingly about good security, the other
two, especially Fidelia, fell upon her and accused her of
hardheartedness; their brother required the money, and in that he was
only like very many other farmers; their brother was their pride and
their only support, their father had himself said so when he was dying,
and when Alick promised that the estate should be security for the
money, Albertine gave way and rejoiced with her sisters that they were
able to be of use to their brother. Alick was fortunate in being able
to draw the money at once, although, of course, he met with a
considerable loss on the transaction. However he had made up his mind
that such must be the case, and had determined that he would take the
loss upon his own shoulders and that his sisters should not suffer,
indeed they would gain by lending him their money, for was he not going
to give them five per cent for it.
He came home punctually in the second week of January 1847, and a few
days later, when David and Slus'uhr returned to press him for the
money, he paid it down, took possession of his bills and bowed them out
of the room.
"What's the meaning of all this?" asked Slus'uhr when they were seated
in the carriage. "Why, hang it!" said David. "He has got money after
all. Did you notice that he had a lot more bank notes than what he gave
us?"--"Yes, who the devil did he get them from?"--"I say, let's ask
Zebedee." Now Zebedee was a poor relation of David, who always used to
take him with him as coachman, but his real occupation was spying upon
the owner of any estate in which his master was interested. "Zebedee,
have you seen or heard where he went lately?"--"The coachman told
me he had been to Schwerin."--"To Schwerin? What was he doing in
Schwerin?"--"He got the money there," replied Zebedee. "In Schwerin?
Didn't I always tell my father that these aristocrats uphold each
other through thick and thin? He must have got it from his rich
cousin."--"Ah," muttered Slus'uhr taking the packet of bank notes out
of his pocket and thrusting it under David's nose: "just smell that,"
he said. "These notes wer'n't got from a nobleman! They smell of
garlic, so he must have got them from one of you d--d Jews. But, it's
all the same where they were got. We must go and tell Pomuchelskopp.
Ha, ha, ha! How the little rascal will dance with rage!"
And he was right enough there! Pomuchelskopp was neither to hold nor to
bind when he heard that his plot had failed: "I told you so, I told you
so. I knew that the right time hadn't come yet. Oh, Henny, Henny, it's
all your fault, you made me do it."--"You're a fool!" said Henny
leaving the room.--"Come now, don't be angry!" said Slus'uhr. "It'll do
you no good you know. Tell him that you expect him to pay up the twelve
hundred pound mortgage at midsummer."--"No, no," Pomuchelskopp
whimpered, "that's the only foot-hold I've got on the estate, and if he
pays it, I shall have lost the game. You're sure that he has more
money," he continued, addressing David.--"Yes, a large roll of notes,
and a small one also."--"Well," said Slus'uhr, "you may have your will,
like the dog in the pond, but this much I'll maintain, he must be a
greater fool than I take him for if he doesn't smell a fox now; if he
doesn't see that you're trying to ruin him, and if he has got an
inkling of that, it doesn't matter whether you dun him for the money
now or a couple of years hence."--"But, but," exclaimed the honest old
law-giver, stamping and puffing about the room like a steam-engine,
"even though he may have guessed something of what is going on, it
doesn't si'nify much, for he can't do without me. I am the only friend
who can help him."--"Well then, don't help him. Midsummer is the
best time to make him pay up, for he has no money coming in at that
time."--"Hasn't he though? He'll have the price of the wool and the
rape."--"Hang it, man, you forget that he has to pay off the interest
of a lot of money, and besides that, you may be sure that he always
spends his income before he gets it."--"I can't do it, I tell you, I
can't do it. I can't draw back the foot I've planted on his land for
anything," repeated Pomuchelskopp, and he was not to be persuaded to
change his mind.
"It's a great pity," said the attorney as he was driving home, "when a
man hasn't courage to carry out his intentions and so stops short in
the middle. Mark my words, our work at Puempelhagen is finished. I wish
I had to do business with the old woman, she'd have gone through with
it."--"She's a fearfully clever woman," said David.--"It's no good
talking," grumbled Slus'uhr, "our milch cow at Puempelhagen has gone
dry. We'd have got on all right if you hadn't been such an idiot,
David. Why couldn't you have made your father foreclose his mortgage?
If you had done that, we'd both have made a pot of money."--"Good
heavens!" cried David. "He won't do it, I tell you. He goes to see old
Hawermann, and they sit for hours together talking. When I say to him
'foreclose', he tells me to attend to my own business and he'll attend
to his."--"Then he must be in his second childhood, and a man who knows
so little how to act for his own advantage ought to be put under
guardians, who will act for him."--"Well, d'ye know--I've thought of
that several times; but you see--it's so--so--and then you see; my
father's far too sharp for that to be tried."